In Your World
by googleit6
Summary: A past mistake finally catches up with Altair as he nods off to sleep in the Assassin's Bureau in Acre. Some mistakes cannot be undone, but can be forgiven.


Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad didn't dream. What he saw in everyday life was surreal enough to penetrate his deepest thoughts, down to the core of his being. Nothing else was strong enough to break through his barrier of realism. From a young age, he had been taught about fear, and how it was an emotion for fools. When you were an assassin, the only time fear was an option, was when you started circling _your _prey, slowly closing in, picking off others, just to show this fox how strong _you _were, and finally delivering the final blow, your opponent so scared, he would fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness and redemption. He was still in the same position as you drove the blade deeply into his neck, as if holding his hands together in prayer would offer one last, lingering plea to a god Altaïr wasn't sure existed. When you saw things Altaïr saw, dreams were not an option. Having been raised cold hearted and detached, he unfortunately carried these traits long before anyone had touched his soul with icy fingers. He didn't need dreams, never needed to escape his own reality. Arrogant, he enjoyed seeing the vulnerability in his victim's eyes, a mouse under the paw of a cat. Blood stained weapons and robes informed Altaïr of a job well done.

Although he was part of a Creed, Altaïr followed his own set of rules. To many of the brothers, he seemed to be there for one of two reasons. Either he was there for mere convenience, or he felt the need to display his superiority as a Master Assassin. Never one to accept help from anybody, Altaïr rarely would go on a mission with another assassin, unless Al Mualim insisted upon it. Though not above his pride and arrogance, boot kissing was a prominent character trait.

In fact, boot kissing had gotten him his next mission: Akaml Amiv, the current ruler of the black market in Acre.

In the dampness of Acre's Assassin Bureau, Altaïr was sitting silently amongst the equally damp pillows, the water vapour having made the colour leech out of the thin cushions long ago. He had arrived beaten and battered at the Assassin's Bureau, after having another of his many run-ins with the guards of the Kingdom. As was whispered among his Creed brothers, Altaïr often provoked the guards of his own volition, if he felt his journey wasn't exciting enough. Five of Masyaf's horses had been seriously injured while under Altaïr's care, and two had been killed. Al Mualim was often heard raging at Altaïr, even though he had completed his mission more than competently. Though he was a truly conceited and self-interested man, his stealth and subtlety had earned him almost as much a reputation as his antics did. Rumours had been flying lately that Altaïr was an even better assassin than Al Mualim had ever been, and was, in fact, the best the creed had ever seen.

In the other room of the bureau was Rafiq, silently turning pages of a dusty, ancient book. Altaïr thought of the recent book burnings he had heard of in Damascus, and then thought of Al Mualim's extensive library. The books Al Mualim had been studying almost daily since he became Master of the Assassins. He had a feeling that Al Mualim could feel the searing heat of the pile of books and texts as they went up in an impressive flame. Texts had never been Altaïr's forte, as he enjoyed the feeling of power, of his own superiority. Maybe one day though, as he would pass his knowledge on to the next generation, he would crack open a book or two. That is, if all the texts in the Holy Land had not gone up in flames by then.

Pale light pooled through the roof of the assassin's bureau, creating an imaginary puddle of energy at Altaïr's feet. It was dawn. It had officially been three hours since Altaïr had arrived in Acre. Still tired, and nursing a blossoming black eye from those damned guards in Kingdom, Altaïr wanted to sleep. But as it often would, sleep would not come when he wanted it most. Unconsciousness was closing in from all sides, but that just seemed to concentrate his line of sight on the dust motes lazily falling down into the entrance of the bureau.

Sighing, Altaïr pushed himself to his feet in one, lithe motion. He had forgotten to close the damn roof hatch. Climbing as if he were going to launch himself onto the top of the building, Altaïr stopped just before the light could find his hooded, sleepy eyes. Holding onto the ledge, Altaïr pushed himself towards the roof hatch. As he had done many times before, he grabbed the rusted metal and pulled it shut with a loud clang. In the other room, he heard a heavy thud, and Rafiq muttering and cursing to himself as he bent down to pick up what was most likely a mouldy book.

Altaïr landed gracefully, and now the large pool of light had shattered as it shone through the open design of the roof hatch, into many smaller diamonds that found their path blocked by Altaïr and his bulky robes, making him look like he was looking up through a jail cell in the ground. He returned to his pile of cushions. In a few hours, Akmal was having a meeting to discuss his guard's positions during his large deal tonight, and Altaïr had to be there.

_Sleep, _he commanded himself, dropping his chin towards his chest, resting his forearms on his knees and wrapping his hands around his upper calves, interlocking them. It wasn't a comfortable position, but it was what he was accustomed to. Altaïr took some deep breaths, clearing his mind. A white mist descended upon his consciousness, ready to whisk him away to the land of nothing and rest, when he thought he heard a cry.

Now, normally, Altaïr would have ignored such a thing, especially when he was getting extremely agitated at his inability to fall asleep. Additionally, a scream in the city of Acre was nothing special, as those guards were nothing short of being plain oblivious.

However, what bothered Altaïr was not the scream, but the proximity of it. It sounded as though it came from deep inside him, a cry of shock and horror. Altaïr strained his ears, listening for Rafiq's response. He heard none. Strange, he thought. As an assassin though, he dealt with many strange things daily, and decided to blame the non existent scream on his lack of sleep.

Willing the lethargic mist to come and take him away again, he did his best to wipe all coherent thought from his mind. He was restless, though, after that scream. Why hadn't anybody outside of the bureau on the streets reacted? Although the bureau was fairly well blocked off from the noises of the everyday goings on, loud occurrences could be picked up well enough, especially by Altaïr's excellent hearing, adapted after many months of hard work at eavesdropping from a distance.

The scream could have just been a natural noise. The settling of the roof hatch, maybe.

Altaïr scolded himself. He shouldn't concern himself with such nonsense. Akmal was strong and fast, and if he wasn't well rested, he would have a hard time getting his job done.

Promising himself no more interruptions, Altaïr lowered his hood even further, blocking in a out the top half of his face. For many minutes, he concentrated on nothing but the frayed edge of a pillow in front of him. Slowly but surely, the all encompassing mist was back again, at the edges of his vision, moving to cover his whole stare, causing his eyes to glaze over, lulling Altaïr into a deep sleep. Thankfully, Altaïr succumbed, and in seconds was fast asleep.

Wait- there was that _scream _again! _Damn! _

Altaïr opened his eyes, but knew something was wrong. He was no longer in the assassin's bureau in Acre. He lifted his hand to his face to rub his eyes, and didn't notice the lack of bruising when he should have had a large purple mark right under his eye.

He observed his surroundings cautiously, searching his memory banks for something remotely familiar to this. He knew every street and back alley in Acre, Jerusalem, and Damascus like the back of his hand, and he was not in any of them. His assassin's senses were on full alert, but the most they were telling him was that something was _off._ Off didn't exactly mean bad, but in the terms of an assassin, the two terms weren't exactly mutually exclusive. _Off _usually meant someone or something was around, but its intentions were benevolent, or even apathetic towards the assassin. _Bad _usually meant someone or something was around, and they were watching very closely, with very malevolent intentions. _Off _could often turn to _bad _in a matter of moments.

Altaïr was still stretching his senses as far as he could, listening for even the slightest…anything, come to think of it. Since he had been in this place, everything had been still, silent. If that was the case, where was the _off _feeling coming from?

Altaïr stood in an open square, with a fountain made of white marble surrounded by sand coloured tiles and covered by a dark wooden, shabbily made roof. Buildings surrounded the square, and Altaïr could not see any way to the main streets. He stood just outside the shade's range from the roof, and was feeling more uneasy by the second. Nothing was _moving. _Nothing was _alive. _Where were the birds? The chatter of this strange city's citizens?

Altaïr suddenly had a strange but frightening premonition. Some instinct, deeply laid inside him from ancient times and tribes, told him that he was now the prey. He was being watched by something much more powerful than him, and if he moved _even an inch, _he was opening himself up to what he was sure the worst of nightmares would entail.

This had gone beyond _bad_. Altaïr had never been taught how to deal with an unseen, more powerful enemy. _He _was the one who was unseen. _He _was the one who was but a blade within the crowd. What had caused his stomach to clench and unclench like this? What had turned his palms so sweaty that he couldn't even get a firm grip on his throwing knives or sword?

Altaïr had been taught to never feel fear, to never let his enemy gain the upper hand. So _what was this?_ What was causing him to feel like an eleven year old again, performing his first leap of faith?

Something occurred to him then. When he was eleven, and had been afraid to perform that leap of faith. He had done it, though. He had done exactly what the name entailed, and put his faith into his abilities. That had been a turning point in his life; the time when he discovered that fear really was nothing more than an insecurity. Putting faith in yourself and your abilities was what guaranteed success, nothing more, nothing less. Fear had no part to play for him after that.

Not until this moment.

Ashamed at his cowardly behaviour, Altaïr was ready to start a search of the strange city when his instincts kicked in for a feeble attempt at stopping him.

_You don't know what is out there. You never carry out an assassination until you have thoroughly investigated your target. Don't move, investigate some more._

Altaïr dismissed these thoughts as soon as they entered his head. His pride was at stake, even though it was merely his own view of his pride.

Altaïr took a step forward, and stopped.

Someone was at the far end of the square.

Altaïr's first thought was wondering how they had entered the sealed square. That thought was cleared away though, when, on closer examination, he noticed the red blotch on the woman's chest, which was blossoming brighter and larger, like a rose opening up. This was no beautiful flower, however. As the woman made her way towards him –he hadn't noticed how she was walking towards him at first, he had been too busy staring at the red stain on her chest- her features were coming into clearer focus. She was wearing a long, tattered dress that was a sickly green colour. Her face was gaunt, and her skin was gray. Shreds of skin were falling off her as she moved, leaving a trail. Altaïr was suddenly hit by a stench that he had never even thought could exist. It was as if the woman had slept in dirt and hay for years, and then sat in a damp barn, and just waited to _mould_. And he could see it, as she was even closer to him. Fuzzy, green-blue mould was on the ends of her fingertips, and grew in a patch on the side of her neck. It was dripping. Altaïr drew his robes up to his nose, his eyes watering. The woman was shuffling closer and closer. Altaïr had frozen, and she was but a foot away from him now. The odour was overpowering. Altaïr fought the urge to throw up.

The two started into each other's eyes, Altaïr's leaking hot tears. Her one eye was pale enough to have blended in with the white around it. There was no eyeball in the other socket. Altaïr thought his heart was going to give out at any moment, as adrenaline was pumping threw him with no outlet.

Suddenly, the woman's image flickered. Her lank, stringy hair became light brown and shiny. Both of her eyes were in place. They were a deep brown, the colour of the earth. Her dress became what it once must have been, a pastel green with a lace trim. There was no red stain. Her skin gained colour, and the mould disappeared.

The woman now looking at him was a young, beautiful maiden. However, her eyes bored into Altaïr's with a fierce hatred, rivalled only by the fear that was present in his own. She was staring at him, deep inside him, searching for something. He felt compelled to do so as well. He started at her, taking mental notes about her skin colour, her eye shape, her hair texture. She seemed familiar. Where had he seen her-?

Realization dawned on him. Then it crushed him like a load of bricks.

_How _could he have forgotten her? _How? _

_Altaïr had just killed the current, corrupt leader of Acre, Amin Bahum. Guards were after him in every direction. He needed to get rid of as many as possible, if his escape were to be a smooth one. He was knocking people out of the way as he flew down the street, reaching behind him to his knife pouch to grab a throwing knife. It would slow them down, maybe, but not stop them. It might be enough to gain some distance, though. Guard's angry shouts were still loud and threatening behind him, and without checking like he knew he should have, Altaïr threw the throwing knife as hard over his shoulder as he could. He had assumed that the guards were right behind him, given the proximity of their voices. Once in a chase, Altaïr would block out the noise the citizens around him were making and focus only on the distance between himself and his enemy. Often, this was something that Altaïr prided himself on, as it gave him an advantage. However, on this particular day, Altaïr's citizen block would do more harm than good. As he threw the knife over his shoulder, he hadn't noticed the beautiful girl in the process of running between himself and the guards of Acre. Caught in the crossfire, the blade of Altaïr's throwing knife had pierced her chest, blood spurting out from the wound immediately. The guards ceased all chase, forming a circle around the young woman, who was screaming unintelligibly in shock and horror. It gave Altaïr the escape he was looking for, but as he was swallowed up by the panicking crowd, and all of the noises he was so well known for blocking came flooding back in, he couldn't help looking back, and thinking of the stain that the blood would leave in the pavement. _

As the phantom woman-he didn't even know her name! - melted into a corpse again, Altaïr felt his ever so carefully composed façade tremble. Killing an innocent. Before, he would have viewed it as a regrettable accident, but now… Now he _saw_. This was different than an assassination target that Altaïr would receive from Al Mualim. This was an innocent woman, a woman with a family, maybe. A woman with a future. And he had robbed her of it. Taken it from her without even _looking _at her. He just ran. He'd forgotten all about her the next day. He hadn't told Al Mualim of the blip in his otherwise perfect execution of the assassination of the corrupt leader, and his master's praise had bathed him in a smug light, had washed away the _regrettable accident, _which was nothing to him but a dust pile to be swept under the rug.

Altaïr was brought back to the present by the heat of the woman's stare. She was blurred around the edges now, although that wasn't due to her departure, but to the tears forming in his eyes. She could have been _Ada_.

His eyes were burning, tears begging to fall. For once in his life, Altaïr's pride had taken a back seat. The woman stared at him with her one, pale eye. The fire inside it had gone out, but sadness was about her like an expensive perfume.

Altaïr could not believe how quickly he crumbled, how quickly everything he had ever learned about coldness and detachment left his mind. All he could see behind his closed eyelids was the stain on the woman's once exquisite dress. It grew and grew, water breaking through a dam, onto the cloth on her chest, across her breasts, down towards her stomach. Red filled his vision, making him wild. What had he _done? _He never even _stopped_! The enormity of this casualty knocked Altaïr to his knees. He pounded the ground, an awful mess of salt tears and blood, as he ripped at the pavement with his fingernails.

Pictures flashed through his mind like a slideshow. Every innocent he had ever killed, their potential families, their potential children. He thought his mind would explode. It was too much for one person to experience. All of the hate and fear he had put a cap on as a young child was exploding out of him now. Because he was _afraid_. So afraid. If he could have done that with such apathy, could have killed multiple innocents, what _else _had he done through his life to hurt that his frigid demeanour couldn't have picked up on.

The woman stared at Altaïr on the ground, silently watching his cries. Eventually, he lifted a tear stained face to hers. The eyes that met hers were not the ones that he had entered here with. They were haunted, honest, and afraid. An open book.

Altaïr opened his mouth. His throat was dry.

"I'm… sorry." He whispered huskily. With all of the subtext that those two words implied, Altaïr didn't know how to vocalize them. Nothing would ever make up for this. How could he say that he would give his life for hers, if there ever was a chance? How could he say that he had only been focused on the guards? That he hadn't even noticed her, because he hadn't even _looked back_? Two simple words. A world of meaning behind each one.

Feeling the woman's eyes on him, Altaïr met her steady gaze. She was alive again. The aura of sadness was gone, now replaced with… acceptance? Without breaking eye contact, Altaïr stood, his robes throwing shadows behind him. The corpse returned, and started walking towards him. Every nerve in Altaïr's body was screaming at him, telling to flee. That ancient instinct returned with a vengeance, almost making him move against his will. This was something unknown, something potentially dangerous.

Altaïr held his ground, and the woman's gaze. Her blank eye was assessing him. He could only tell because of the blood vessel's movement. He would not flinch, would not shudder.

As the corpse got closer, Altaïr braced himself for the smell again, but it still caused his eyes to water tremendously. Suddenly, the odour was gone, replaced by a floral smell like fresh tulips. And as the smell changed, so did the woman. She was animated again, although her frame seemed to be… rippling, somehow.

The woman arrived in front of Altaïr, their upper bodies almost touching. Slowly, almost painfully slowly, the woman reached up, as if she meant to caress his cheeks. However, she gripped both sides of his hood and pulled it off his face. Blinking at the sudden brightness, Altaïr raised his hand to cover his eyes, but the woman grabbed it before it could move from his side. She held his hand there, then let it go, the signal clear. She raised her hands again, and this time, she _did _touch the sides of his face. Too stunned to move, too stunned to think, Altaïr let the woman bring her mouth to his. The kiss was not romantic. It was almost… purifying. The woman pulled away, and her image started to flicker. Corpse, live, corpse, live. She was a good distance away from Altaïr now, having moved too quickly for him to see. In her human form, she started to fade. From the outside in, she disappeared. Fading out like the sunlight from the sky at twilight.

And she was gone.

Altaïr stood there, unmoving. Everything was fading now, almost as if the universe was collapsing on itself. It all unfolded in silence. Absolute, utter silence.

Eventually, things came into focus.

He was in Acre again.

Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad didn't dream.


End file.
